Night Rider, Part 2

Syren let herself be quickly saddled and then she rocketed out of the stable before I was properly mounted. I held on to the horn with one hand while trying to grab the reins with the other.

We pounded down the Inn Road, dark silhouettes of alder trees whipping past us. A waning gibbous moon raced along with us from behind the leaves. My vision could not pierce the darkness ahead of me, and I futilely tried to rein in Syren. Instead, she picked up speed. It seemed as though her legs had stopped moving and she was merely skimming along the surface of the road. The trees swooshed by faster and faster until they merged together into a blur.

I thought I heard voices, whispering actually, familiar whispers from long dead relatives, snippets of laughter from friends and enemies–I do not know which. Faces, like phantoms, faded in and out, faces of family and friends now forgotten, some by time and others by will.

I called out, “Syren! Slow down! Whoa!”, but the blue roan was out of my control. Wind whipped my face and after all time seemed to stop, I could no longer catch a breathe. Darkness descended and I no longer knew anything.

When I came to, I felt something soft and warm beneath me. I sat up and wiped a fine, sugary sand from my face. Syren stood next to me and watched with inquisitive eyes.

“Syren! What’s the deal!?” Before I could let loose with a barrage, I turned and was made speechless by the sight before me.

“We’re not in Lemuria anymore, Syren!”

The horse snorted and stamped a forefoot. I stood up on a beach and stared at the sea that stretched into forever. Not a breeze stirred, not a wave moved upon the shore. All was eerily still and completely silent. Islands in the distance reflected with total clarity in the stillness of the water. The moon, devoid of her ancient markings, a perfect white sphere, floated over the horizon, poised to set, yet there was no movement. It was like being trapped within a photograph.

Yet, something was familiar. I had seen this in a dream. And the water, the shore, the moon– these were all images that had at one time or another found their way into my artwork and writing.

Then it hit me: “Syren! This is my unconscious!”

Syren softly whinnied.

“But I’d thought there’d be more. You know, archetypes flitting around, or one of those quest characters, like the Trickster, hanging around– all that stuff Jung talks about.”

Syren shook her steely gray mane.

“No, wait, you’re right. That would be the Collective Unconscious. But…. if this is MY unconscious, then why’s it so dead? There’s nothing going on. No wonder I get writer’s block– my Unconscious is a freakin’ bore!”

“Great!” I picked up Syren’s reins and prepared to mount. “I’ll just pack up and head back to the Real World. Plenty to draw on there— war, pestilence, global warming,– who needs this place!”

My eye caught something. I paused and squinted. Away in the distance flashed a white and yellow light. At the extreme end of a point of land was a structure.

“What’s that? It looks like a lighthouse.” The light pulsed like a heatbeat.

“I knew there had to be SOME action here. Let’s go check it out!”

I mounted Syren. “Sweetie, your re-entry really needs some work, so let’s keep the speed down, shall we?”

Syren and I shot off down the beach toward the light.

Digital Construction and Text: Lori Gloyd (c) July 28, 2006

Up On The Moon Mare

Night rides harrow,

screech and howl,

long fingers catching the

edges of cloaks with long

nails, the black

sheer as shrieking.

Yet the mare takes a

rider to the stars this time,

the cloak rippling in the

lunar wind, shaking out

crags of old

illogical thinking, or

superstition.

The stars are bright,

not twinkling, glowing in the

velvet.

Close up they blaze like

fires, and friendly lights.

The mare has no trouble questing

the air,

winged and well shod by

the sturdy stablewomen,

who know their

art. 

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)

Hardly a doll

So we are of to endure Baba Yaga are we?

For some reason unknown she recoils from

my being touched by the Myrddin Current; though,

throughout the centuries we have supported her

against false claims of stealing children.

At any rate, Cher-Lynne refuses to go there

so I must amble by ‘shanks-mare’ once again –or so I thought.

While musing on Imogen’s Gibran quote at the Abbey,

I noticed a flicker of delight near the fringe of Attention.

Must be a Horse

Someone watches me from the shadows

who I pretend to never see,

but I know it must be a horse,

for I am an Alani warrior,

so who else would follow me?

I am one with the wind

and son of the rain,

born to ride ‘neath the singing moon;

and this mare is a gift

of our Mother Earth

that I will fly free again.

Someone walks with me ‘cross the meadow

though I never utter a word,

but I’ll braid a rope of flowers

and tease her with golden apples

‘till she can but cherish me.

We’ll be one with the wind

and laugh at the rain,

born to ride ‘neath the singing moon;

to both share a gift

of our Mother Earth

that we might dream again.

……….

papa (this editor sure makes a mess of line breaks)

Please don’t ask…

“Why do you stay?” My daughter looked at me, gently touching the bruises on my jaw. I had no answer for her. None. None that I could share with her, because it would cause me to examine some very, very painful history. It was more bearable to bury all of that.

What I did not tell her was that the bruises were directly caused by my latest attempt to stand up to the brute and leave. I was much more safe if I just bore the usual crap from him day in and out, and the hours I was alone I would make the most of. I used more and more valium to dull the part in me that wanted to stand up for myself and confront him. Confronting hurt, and there was no one there those moments to intervene for me. I knew I would never be safe, not if he could find me, to leave him would be in his eyes the greatest sin against him, punishable by death. I could only hope that if I looked after myself, he would die first. If he lived too long, it would cause me to have to put an end to it somehow. So far I could think of a few food additives that might speed things along. Now if I could find the courage to start on the long range plan.

aletta mes

House of Baba Yaga

An important part of the Heroine’s Journey requires that you go to Baba Yaga and acquire the eternal flame. If you have never read Women Who Run With Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes you will have missed her Chapter 3 ‘ ‘Nosing Out the Facts. The Retrieval of Intuition as Initiation’

The Heroine’s work at the House of Baba Yaga is based on the Vasalisa story which you will find on the net.

le Enchanteur comes and gives you a doll who will act as your guide. (Find a doll or make one. Look at her carefully. You will know her well)

Enchanteur says that if you should lose their way, or be in need of help, all you have to do is ask the doll what to do. She says that the doll will assist, that everyone must keep the doll with them at all times, that no-one can tell anyone about her. She say that you must feed the doll when she is hungry and give her drinks if she is thirsty.

After Enchanteur has gone, as quickly as she came, you greet your doll and introduce yourself. Post any initial conversations with your doll guide under ‘Doll Guides’.

The doll says that you have to go through the woods and ask the old lady who lives by the lake how to find Baba Yaga. It doesn’t take long to reach the house by the lake. You do not show the old lady your doll or let her know she is with you.

The old lady who lives by the lake tells you to follow your nose and you will find Baba Yaga’s. Fat lot of use that was!

Having read all your fairy stories you realise that going to Baba Yaga anything could prove interesting. Baba Yaga is the fearsome creature, the crooked woman whose nose is hooked like a bird of prey. Her name means ‘to know, to see, to forsee’ and she is the seer associated with the moon crescent. The Baba Yaga has the power to transform herself into a myriad of shapes, often a toad, sometimes a hedgehog, frequently a bird. The Baba Yaga is often depicted as an evil old hag who eats humans, especially children, but she is known by many to be a wise, prophetic old woman. In appearance she is tall, bony legged, pointy headed and has dishevelled hair.

Worse the doll informs you that the hut she lives in has a fence around it made of human bones and topped with human skulls and eyes intact. The gate is fastened with human legs and arms instead of bolts and a mouth with sharp teeth serves as the lock.

According to the doll, who seems to be a font of information, one person who lived to tell the story said that “she commands the sun and it obeys her, she changes the stars in their course, she causes clouds to form in the air and makes it possible to walk on them and travel the country. She can turn herself into a young woman and then, in a twinkling of an eye turn herself back into an old woman. She has to the power to turn a man into an animal and she likes to move freely along roads and valleys and over mountains. Her business is to cast spells, gather herbs and stones, make pacts and agreements.”

You head down the mountain, over the bridge… towards Baba Yaga’s.

Document your journey and record it under ‘Road to Baba’s.’